


focus

by scredgirl



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Gratuitous Smut, im an intellectual because i insert my smut thoughtfully in the books timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-16
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-11-18 18:50:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18125102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scredgirl/pseuds/scredgirl
Summary: The banquet on Thanedd is a dramatic affair, and when Triss's mood turns sour, she can think of one good way to cope.





	focus

**Author's Note:**

> This is set during the banquet on Thanedd (Time of Contempt). Yennefer tells Triss off for thinking she still has a chance with Geralt, and Triss runs off after that.

Batting eyelashes, hitched breathing and trembling lips. She wills the tears away. The first thing she needs to do is put as much space as she can between her and Yennefer. She would walk straight out of the room, but she can already hear the mocking gossip if she did: young Merigold chased out of the banquet by the heartless shrew. Her colleagues love to gossip, and she's already humiliated herself enough by bolting from Yennefer so obviously. She walks a few tables over, grabs a champagne glass and fills it, almost to the brim. It's not her favourite wine, the dryness makes her grimace a bit. She fills her glass again.

 

* * *

  

Philippa Eilhart catches sight of Yennefer, looking confidential as she chats with Triss Merigold. She can only see the back of Triss's head, and idly wonders what the pair might be talking about now that the witcher has been sent out of earshot. She picks up another savoury tartlet and doesn't even pretend to be interested in whatever Fercart is blathering about. Triss shrinks back from her raven-haired friend, her face strawberry-red as she turns and strides away.  _There's my answer._  Philippa resists the urge to roll her eyes. She knows of Triss's ridiculous infatuation with the witcher, and she also knows that Yennefer is not one to leave loose threads hanging. She was bound to push Triss away more firmly at some point - Philippa is surprised it hasn't happened sooner, in fact. Not that it's any concern of hers, either way.

A pack of younger magicians make their way towards her and Fercart, interrupting his monologue, and she welcomes the fresh conversation.

 

* * *

 

Triss grabs her arm in stride as she is making her way over to Tissaia de Vries, and smoothly pivots her from her initial trajectory to lead her away from the crowd.

“Hello, Triss,” Philippa deadpans. “Enjoying yourself this evening?”

“There's something I want to ask you about.” Her tone is conversational, but she has a firm hold on Philippa's arm as she marches her out of the main hall, through a corridor, and another one, and finally into a deserted drawing room. How Triss knows the layout of Garstang so well, Philippa has no idea. She can only assume she's been pacing through the halls earlier, mulling over Yennefer and her witcher. Triss does her fair share of mulling. She locks the door behind them.

“What are you doing?” There is no annoyance in Philippa's voice, only a compassionate condescension.

Triss turns to face Philippa, and in one brisk motion, puts a hand around her neck and draws her in for a kiss. Her tongue is heavy with the taste of white wine. Philippa catches herself just before she starts to enjoy it, and pulls away.

“ _What_ are you doing?” she repeats, less condescending and more incredulous.

She knows no one is there, but her eyes still dart around the room for a second.

“I want you,” Triss asserts, pulling Philippa to her again, slamming her own back against the door she's just locked.

“Triss!” Philippa whispers, as if to compensate for the loud noise Triss has just produced by colliding with the door. “Don't you think there's enough on our minds tonight? Now is not the time.”

“Now is the perfect time. How am I supposed to prance around making small talk on a night like this?”

Her hands are still pulling at Philippa's shoulders, lips trying to capture hers once again.  _This is because Yennefer chastised her earlier,_ Philippa wearily remarks to herself. Triss's self-confidence is easily bruised, and Philippa is skilled at mending it. When she cares to.

“I’d sooner be doing something  _fun_ ,” Triss coaxes again. “Come on, Pippa.”

Philippa narrows her eyes at the nickname. Triss has taken to using it when she wants something from her. She thinks it works to soften her – nonsense. Right this moment, Philippa could do without a needy co-conspirator, but if she must take it upon herself to improve Triss’s focus – worse sacrifices have been made for far lesser causes. She grasps Triss’s jaw with one hand.

“I don't trust you to keep quiet.”

“I can fix that.”

Triss, pressed against the door, makes a gesture with her arms outstretched.

Philippa snatches one of her hands before she can complete the spell.

“A  _discretion sphere_?” she hisses. “Absolutely not. Every mage that passes by will know something is going on.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Triss lets out in an impatient whine, “you'll just have to shut me up, then.”

She imperiously presses herself against Philippa again, and this time the other woman meets her kiss. She spins them away from the awfully noisy door, and it only takes a couple of steps before Triss's calves find the soft edge of a velvet chaise longue. She promptly sinks down on it. She looks up at Philippa as she undoes the clasps of her dress's collar.

“I'll say, it didn't take an awful lot to convince you,” she grins, triumphant.

Philippa loosens the lacing on her own gown before placing her hands on Triss's shoulders, pushing her down into the plush chair as she straddles one of her legs, outstretched on the velvet beneath her.

“Don't get cocky now.”

Triss hasn't removed the top of her dress entirely - she rarely does - but it's enough that Philippa can trace kisses along her clavicle, streaked with faint burn scars. A satisfied hum builds up in Triss's throat.

One hand tangles in the chestnut locks and tugs, drawing a sharp moan from Triss. Philippa is prepared for it, and her other hand immediately flies up to cover Triss’s mouth.

“Quieter.” She removes her hand.

“You know what happens when you grab my hair,” Triss chides. “It was your own fault, really.”

“Really?” Philippa straightens up and takes her hand out of Triss's hair.

Triss gives a vexed groan at the sudden absence of Philippa's body against her own. She reaches up, hoping to coax the other woman into a kiss, but Philippa flattens one hand on her chest and pushes her back down.

“Whose fault was it?”

Triss bites her lip and inhales deeply. She hates how unyielding Philippa can be, even about the most insignificant things, the way she is always in control, patient, decided. She hates the steady pressure of her hand on her chest and the slight curl of her lips; the dark, uncompromising eyes that look down at her below painted eyelids. There's amusement in those eyes, and Triss hates that as well. She’s fairly sure she does.

“It was my fault.” Despite Triss’s best efforts, her voice is husky rather than angry, it lingers in an imploring way. “I'll be quieter, I promise.”

Philippa's eyes light up in triumph – Triss curses herself for giving in so easily – and her hand leaves Triss’s chest, caressing the side of her neck up to her cheek as she leans over. Triss throws her arms around her, urging her down to meet avid lips. Her fingers wander over Philippa’s bodice, undoing what's left of the laces, barely fumbling. They slither under the fabric and Philippa's breath catches ever so slightly. She eases her arms out of the sleeves of her gown, allowing Triss to pull it down, baring her chest. Soft hands trace the contours of her breasts and ghost along the sensitive skin on her sides.

She kisses Triss deeper. Her hand glides over the silk of Triss's gown, down her hip and her leg, until it finds the hem. Triss's eyes fall shut, her fingertips tense up against Philippa's chest as the hand moves back up that same path, along her stocking and her skin and up between her thighs. She spreads them further, sighing in anticipation, but the hand has stilled.

She opens her eyes to meet Philippa's. They have the same look as earlier, like she has all the time in the world.  _So goddamn smug_ , Triss reflects with annoyance.

“Now what?” she whines.

“What do you think?” Her fingers are skimming along the very top of Triss's thigh, absentmindedly. She can feel Triss’s hips trembling, and she admires her resolve at keeping them still.

“I think I'd like you to get on with it.”

Philippa gives a low chuckle at that.

“Maybe you haven’t convinced me as well as you thought earlier.”

Their faces are so close, but Triss inches a little closer still.

“Please?” she murmurs close to Philippa's ear.

Triss's warm breath on her neck and the light bite she gives her ear almost cause her to give in. She inches closer, just enough to make her squirm, then stops again. Triss understands. She whispers  _please_  again,  _please please please_ , her voice dripping with need,  _I’m begging you_. Her abstract pleas turn into grateful murmurs as supple fingers nudge past the light fabric of her undergarments, already wet against her skin, and slip inside with ease. Triss bucks her hips, a choked whimper rising in her throat despite her resolutely closed mouth. She dots her partner’s neck and chest with hungry kisses, solely to keep her mouth busy, not caring if she will leave any marks.

Philippa’s head perks up as footsteps and loud voices travel down the corridor. She shushes Triss softly, but her hand doesn’t stop. Triss’s eyes are half closed, occasionally flicking towards the door for an instant before Philippa’s fingers curl again and she loses focus. She sucks in air as carefully as she can muster, until the sound of her skirt rustling in time with Philippa’s motions is louder than her own breathing. She can’t tell how long they have lasted, but finally the noises are receding in the distance and she can allow herself to breathe again, panting wildly and so so close.

“That’s good,” Philippa whispers, pushing strands of hair out of Triss’s face. “You didn’t make a sound. I’m impressed.” Her smile is honey and self-satisfaction.

“Don’t stop now” is all Triss can muster in response, ragged and pleading.

Philippa’s thumb brushes over a particularly sensitive spot as two fingers curl inside Triss, and it sends her over the edge. A series of whimpers escape her, her body arching and twisting, and Philippa presses their lips together to quieten her. Triss moans into her mouth, long and high-pitched, hands grasping at her hair and digging into her back, until she becomes too sensitive. Philippa removes her fingers and wipes them against the inside of her thigh.

Triss stretches, sighing contentedly, and pushes Philippa away with one knee. She needs some air if does not wish to get sweaty in her ball gown. Philippa is content to lean back at the opposite end of the lounging chair, slightly breathless as well. Triss rests her feet on her lap and starts fixing her own hair as best she can. The scars on her chest look white against her flushed skin.

“Gods, Phil, I thought you didn’t trust me to keep quiet. You could have stopped while there were people in the hall. What if they’d heard us?”

“If they'd heard _you_. I imagine we would have gotten our fair share of stares when we reappeared at the banquet.”

“A good thing I’m so self-possessed, then.”

Philippa snorts, and Triss throws one of the cushions resting on the chair at her.

“Is that any way to thank me?” Philippa grimaces as the cushion bumps into her shoulder.

“You mock me.”

“I already congratulated you for doing so well,” she teases, running her hand along Triss’s shin. “How much praise do you need from me?”

“As much as you can muster would be a start.”

“Unfortunately, I'm fresh out.”

Philippa slips the top of her gown back on, gathers her hair up and presents her back to Triss so she can lace her up. When that’s done, she turns around and holds Triss’s chin in one hand as she fixes the smudged makeup at the corner of her eye and on her cheek. She pulls back to examine her work.

“Better. Now tell me if you’ve left any marks for me to fix.  _I_  don’t get to hide behind a high cut neckline for the rest of the evening.”

 

* * *

 

The great hall is loud with the sounds of conversation, laughter, and the clinking of decanters pouring wine in crystal glasses. Philippa deftly inserts herself in Margarita and Keira's conversation, and it's like she's never even left the hall. Marti passes them by, a foppish young mage on her arm. She's not quite out of earshot when Keira cracks a joke at their expense, getting a slightly scandalised laugh out of Margarita. Philippa chuckles into her glass and chances a glance towards Triss, on the other side of the room. It seems she's been dragged into a debate between Sabrina and Dorregaray, both of them wildly gesticulating at each other, him pointing at Sabrina's shoes while she responds with a decidedly impolite gesture. Triss has cast herself in an unsuccessful mediator role, but her head is held high and it's a good thing she's there to remove the glass from Sabrina's hand when she starts to wave it about a little too menacingly. She waves Dorregaray away and hands Sabrina a platter of pastries to placate her, and when her gaze meets Philippa's, she rolls her eyes and makes a face. Philippa shrugs and smiles understandingly before turning again to her own conversation. Now that Triss has gotten her wits about her, there's nothing left for her to worry about but the fate of a few kingdoms.


End file.
